Everything's Changed, 2007 Revised Version
by pepsicolagurl
Summary: A father and daughter struggle to get to know each other. A face from the past comes back to haunt them. A woman tries to cement her place in their life. Life has become a fight to the death. 2007 revised version of the 2002 original story
1. Part One, Chapter One

Title - Everything's Changed (2007 Edition)  
Author - pepsicolagurl  
Rating - M for language, violence, sexuality  
Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously (original characters). Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All known characters belong to CBS and/or Jerry Bruckheimer. Original characters belong to pepsicolagurl. Deepest apologies from the author if the plot bunny dies. There's only so much that life support can do.

Forward  
_Everything's Changed_. It certainly has. This story was initially published back in 2002. It's been five years since then, and almost everything has changed. Including my style of writing.

_EC_ was the first fan fiction that I ever posted on this website, and definitely my first CSI fiction. That being said, looking back at it now, I'm not overly pleased with it. In fact, I cringe when I read it now. It's nothing like I first thought it was. Back then, I thought it was a fantastic, original read. Now, I look at my characters and my story and realize how far I've come since then. The want to rewrite the story has always been very strong and I've finally given into that desire.

This is the revised version of _EC_. It's nothing special in its own right, but it's the story that I always wanted to tell. You may find that some of the characters are portrayed differently than how they originally were. This is also an extended version. This story is now going to contain not only the meat of the original _EC_, but portions of other stories that I had planned to write, introducing a new character named Kennedy Scott, and bringing into that the CSI/CSI:Miami crossover I had planned involving Anastasia Grissom. Like I said, everything has changed. But this is finally a story that I can be proud of.

Thanks and enjoy, everyone!

-- pepsicolagurl

* * *

Part One  
Chapter One

She waited impatiently, tapping her foot on the ground. The man ahead of her finished tucking his wallet into the pocket of his business jacket, and she was quick to grab hold of the handle of her suitcase, pulling it along with her. "Large earl grey tea, two bags, room for cream, please," she said, smiling wanly at the woman behind the counter. Less than a minute passed before she had the double-cupped tea in hand while juggling her bags as she made her way to the cream and sugar stand. Her eyes rolled once more at the businessman as she headed out of the small cafe and then outside the airport.

The suitcase and backpack were left on the curb as she dug into the pocket of her jean jacket, pulling out a package of cigarettes and a lighter. As she lit her smoke, her eyes traveled to an ad on the wall of the parking garage. Welcome to Las Vegas, it said. She laughed to herself, shaking her head. The first time she had traveled to the desert oasis, she had thought about how interesting and fun it was going to be. Of course, she reminded herself, that was back in the days of the family friendly image the city had tried to portray. It didn't take her long to discover the truth. It was a gaudy city that played to the freedom and fantasies of tourists dressed in colorful Hawaiian shirts and black socks with sandals. That, of course, was just the part that was famous, known around the world. She knew, for instance, the place where she would be staying was part of a recently built townhouse development where people tried to keep their lawns as green as possible and the only bright lights around were street lamps at night.

She could help but shake her head about the duality of the city, admitting how much it mimicked her own life. Thankfully, she only had to think about it once every few years. Her lips curved into a wry smile as she finished her cigarette with one last mighty inhale, before she dropped it on the ground and stomped on it. Almost immediately, a taxi pulled up alongside her. She nodded to the driver's curious look before he got out of the car, helping her throw her bags into the back. She slipped into the backseat gratefully, giving the driver an address once he was settled, before smirking at him in the rearview mirror. "And avoid the Strip, please."

Sitting in the back, with only the sound of the radio playing an oldies station softly, she turned her face towards the closest window, watching the sights of the city pass by the nearly speeding vehicle. Quite honestly, she had to admit that the residential area looked as normal as any Main Street USA. The same horrors of those other towns lurked in Las Vegas, just the same. Divorce, affairs, child abuse, murder. The only difference was that a small part of the town was nothing but neon lights and glitz, tourists and big spenders, showgirls and cocktail waitresses. And Elvis. She fought back a snort of laughing at that thought.

The taxi pulled up to an unfamiliar building, the driver parking and getting out of the car to retrieve her bags from the trunk. She let herself out of the back and sighed, digging into her purse for her wallet. She paid and tipped the driver, thanking him with a genuine smile before facing the building. The smile dropped from her face immediately.

Bags in hand, she walked in the building, heading directly to the receptionists desk. She waited for the blonde woman to hang up the phone before clearing her throat to get her attention. "Hi, I'm here to see Dr. Gil Grissom. He's expecting me."

The receptionist slid a clipboard and a pen across the top of the desk. "Please print your name clearly and sign beside it. I'll call Dr. Grissom and let him know that he has a visitor."

"Thanks." She picked up the pen and almost defiantly scrawled her name on the visitor sign-in sheet, her equally messy signature going beside it. She pushed the clipboard back the same time the blonde turned to her with a quick, professional smile and a laminated badge. She narrowed her eyes at the visitor's badge. "Um...are those things sanitized or at least cleaned after they're used?"

An odd look was all that she got in return. "Dr. Grissom is on his way out. He asked that you leave your bags here with me."

She didn't say a work as she clipped the badge to the lapel of her denim coat and brought her wheeled suitcase and backpack around to the other side of the desk, before turning towards the doorway when she heard a familiar tread. There was a long, uncomfortable moment as father and daughter stared at each other, wondering what the hell they were supposed to do, how to greet each other.

Gil Grissom, on the other hand, couldn't believe what he was seeing. Each time she visited, she looked completely different. As much as he didn't want to admit it, she looked just like every other teenager. Her hand last time had been the same honey brown his once had been, and just past her shoulders. A wholesome, all American girl look. Now it was dyed a blue black, traveling down her back and over her shoulders in a tangle of messy curls. The four earrings he had frowned at last time seemed to have spawned new ones, a third set above the previous two and a sparkling diamond in the left upper ear. A matching but smaller diamond was pushing through her right nostril. He couldn't help but wonder, almost apprehensively, how many more could be hidden under her clothing. Her blue eyes, the same dark color that her mother's had been glared back at him defiantly. Her black pants were too tight, her black heeled boots had too much of a heel, the bottom of her jean jacket didn't come near the waistband of her pants, and her blood red shirt was far too low-cut for his taste.

But rather than comment on any of it, he simply nodded to her. "You look older."

A single thin eyebrow rose. "So do you," she said defensively, as he frowned and turned away, motioning for her to follow. She rolled her eyes and hurried to catch up, keeping her arms crossed against her chest. He led her through a confusing maze of hallways. Every now and then, someone would turn to look at the mismatched duo, the neat looking scientists and the stereotypical teenager. She stared back at a spiky haired young man in a lab coat through a glass wall, smirking at him until he looked away. Finally, Grissom led her to a darkened office, hitting a light switch. A bank of overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life.

She swallowed her disgust when the office was fully illuminated, keeping her gaze away from the various filled jars, tanks, and cages. "Ew." Grissom gave her a raised eyebrow of his own. "You know, you could have just brought me the key to the front desk and let me go back to your place."

He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit, Anastasia."

"Tara. My name is Tara." At his silence, she groaned. "Tah-rah. Easy name, four letters. You gave it to me; you might as well use it."

He sat in his own chair, closing his eyes and breathing lightly. "Please don't start this, Anastasia. The last thing that you should start your visit with is a fight."

Tara Davidson laughed incredulously, shaking her head. A lock of black hair fell in front of her face and she made no motion to move it. "Please. It's not like my 'visit' started with a hug and a kiss and a 'how the hell are you', like most parents would do. And just so we're clear, Dad, this visit is not voluntary and it sure as hell isn't my idea. You're the one that wouldn't pay for me to go to Hawaii with everyone else from home."

"That's not why you're here and you know it."

"Right. How could I forget? The parole hearing. Because it's so fucking important to show off the grieving family every two years," she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. "Forget it, Dad. They're not gonna parole him. Nobody's that fucking stupid."

Grissom shot her an odd look. "Watch your mouth, Anastasia. You're only sixteen." He knew that the words should have been more forceful. He had seen and heard a coworker discipline her own daughter, who was younger, a few times. Instinctively, he knew he should have seemed like an angry father, but it came out sounding mild, like his normal speaking tone. "And that's why I wanted to speak with you. I have a few rules while you're staying with me this summer. I know I didn't do this last time, but things have obviously changed."

"No shit."

He didn't bother commenting that time. He knew that he should have told her off for purposely flaunting her lack of obedience, but he just didn't have it in him then. Maybe later. But he already knew that there wasn't going to be a later. "No swearing, no late nights, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs. No boys over. You have to let me know where you're going, with whom, and when you'll be back. No exceptions."

"You mean no fun." With a giggle, she threw her arms in the air. "Welcome back to the fifties, ladies and gentlemen! My God. You've been an absent parent for eleven years and now you decide to be an overbearing father. Absolutely beautiful! Anything else, Mr. Hitler?"

"No more piercings, no tattoos."

She shimmied out of her jean jacket and left it draped behind her on the chair as she stood up, taking the hem of her shirt into her hands. He could already see a sparkling diamond hanging from just below the bottom of her shirt and he fought back a sigh. Yeah, there was at least one more piercing there. "Wanna see the rest of them?" she asked, raising her shirt half an inch.

"Sit down." She sat, almost obediently, smiling innocently at him. "Your show of dramatics does nothing to help your case."

Whatever playful light had been in her eyes before was now completely extinguished, he saw. She looked away from him, towards one of the walls with a sneer. "My case. Of course. Lay out the evidence in front of me and tell me about my case. You know something, Dad? Fuck you. I'm not one of your little suspects, so don't treat me like one. Stop putting me under a microscope to look at the little bits of me. So I have piercings and I dyed my hair. Big deal. You don't know me at all. What's the stupid line you kept telling me when I was a kid? Can't see the forest for the trees?" She chuckled, refusing to look at him. "Yeah, that's you. Sitting here in this office, chasing after the bad guys, mixing your little acids and bases together and guess what? Your sixteen year old daughter, that you see every two years when it's time for a fucking parole hearing, lives with another family in another state and goes to a school that you've never even seen. And you think I'm out here for a visit."

Another uncomfortable silence, the second one in twenty minutes, fell between them. The girl remained looking over to the wall, and he continued to look at her. "While you're out here," he began, breaking the silence. "While you're out here, you're my daughter. You're not Tara Davidson."

"No, I'm Anastasia Grissom, right? The invisible girl," she whispered, blinking her eyes quickly before turning back to him with an ugly look on her face. "Great, so have we covered everything? Can I finally get the hell out of here and get some damned sleep? I've been traveling since five o'clock this morning...yesterday morning," she corrected, looking over at a clock. "The keys, please. And some cab fare."

He watched, almost with some pride, at how she straightened her back and shoulders, throwing her chin out. There was a strength in her that she inherited from her mother, whether she knew it or not. Most of what she did or said sounded like it would have come from her mother. Even the fact that she swore like a sailor when she was angry. It was, in fact, one of things that had caught his attention when he had first met her, back when they were both in their twenties. He looked back at his daughter and nodded, reaching into a nearby drawer, extracting a keychain and handing it over to her. Anastasia Grissom, as she was now to be called, took the keys in hand, running a finger over one of the small silver hearts that dangled from the keys. "I found that in one of the boxes in the attic, when I was bringing down some of your things for your bedroom. I thought that it would be appropriate."

A slight smile came to her face as she traced the entwined initials engraved on the silver heart. GG, of course, was for Gil Grissom, her father, and TD was for Tara Davidson, her mother's maiden name. She turned it over and saw that there had been an addition to the heart. On the back were the initials ATGD. Anastasia Tara Grissom-Davidson. She pushed that silver heart aside and looked at the thinner one, with the name Pepper engraved on it. "You kept Pepper's collar tag?" she asked, looking up at him.

The faintest trace of a smile came to his face. "Your mom did. She loved that dog."

"So did I." She didn't bother commenting that Pepper, the small grey mutt she had grown up with as a toddler, had given her the first lesson of life and death. Her mother had quickly followed that. "Thanks, Dad. It...um...it's rather nice."

"Well, your mother's things are yours now. There's a lot of stuff up in the attic that you can go over and decide if you want it now or not. And there's more stuff packed away in storage, for when you move out. Some old family furniture and dishes. Things like that." He looked uncomfortable, and shifted slightly in his chair. "Anastasia, don't stay up late tonight. I expect you to go home and go to bed almost immediately."

"Yeah," she mumbled, standing up and putting the keys in her jacket pocket. He took out his worn leather wallet and handed her a twenty dollar bill. She plucked it from between his fingers and pushed it into her back pocket with a sudden grin. "Thanks, Dad. See you in the morning."

"Of course."

* * *

The changes that had taken place in the Grissom household hadn't all been noticed until the sun had risen that morning. Some of them, Anastasia reasoned, were normal. Extra towels in the bathroom and easy to tell apart. White for her father, maroon for her. Her toothbrush and other toiletries now littered the bathroom counter, and the shower had been filled with her shampoo, conditioner, soaps, and sponges. Her bedroom had been a pleasant surprise. Since the day he had moved in, she had claimed the front facing bedroom for her own, especially since it got the morning sun and he worked graveyards. But he had finally covered the pink and white striped wallpaper that had been for the eight year old version of her, having the walls painted an eggshell white. The other pieces of her childhood were either moved around or gone. The ballerina lamp that had been on the white end table was replaced by a plastic blue lamp that looked suspiciously like an Ikea product. The bedding had been changed, and was now just plain dark blue sheets rather than covered with Barbie's. The vanity mirror no longer had pictures of boy bands and teen heartthrobs pasted onto it. The glass had been replaced and her makeup and jewelry cases were now strewn across the top. The bookcase was the only thing that showed her childhood, what with the old picture bible and storybooks she had grown up with. On the top shelf, however, were some of the novels she had brought with her or purchased two years ago. Stephen King, John Grisham, and a few other thrillers.

There was a change in the kitchen, as well. Sitting on the counter, as if waiting for her, was a brand new box of earl grey tea, the electric kettle, and a mug. She smiled to herself as she started her morning ritual of a cup of milky tea, spying in the cupboards and fridge to see what was there. She knew that he had tried, gone out of his way to get some of her favorite things. A brand new case of yogurt in the fridge, a small container of chocolate milk towards the back. Her favorite crackers and cheese. The cereal that he had remembered her eating two years ago. Shaking her head, she went to go get the newspaper off the front stoop and went into the living room, slipping a disc into the CD player and turning up the volume.

When he had walked in the door, he had been somewhat confused. It had been a long night, as usual, but it hadn't been so long that he hadn't walked into the wrong house. Yet there was rather loud rock music playing from the stereo, and sitting at the bar in the kitchen was a slender teenager, flexing one long tanned leg to the beat of the music (though how she could find it was beyond him), a pair of reading glasses on and a pen in hand. He fought back a twitch of a smile as he looked at her, clad in a pair of jean cut-offs and a plain black tank top, her hair still wet from her shower and tied up in a messy bun against the back of her head. He walked a little closer and looked over her shoulder. "Seven down is apathy," he told her, his eyes scanning the half-completed crossword.

"Thanks, but I would have gotten it eventually," she told him over the music, filling in the white squares with neat capital letters. "Sorry. I know you're the crossword buff, but I already finished the sudoku puzzle and the word jumble, and I got bored."

"It's fine." He walked around the bar and put his leather briefcase down on the counter, before touching the side of the kettle. Feeling that the water was still hot, he reaching inside a cupboard and removed a box of orange pekoe tea, dropping a bag into a clean mug and adding water and a squeeze of lemon juice. Anastasia shuddered at the thought of how it would taste and sipped her own tea. "You found everything all right?"

She nodded, filling in another set of squares. "Yeah. Uh, thanks for doing my room for me. I appreciate it." There was a slight pause before she looked at him. "Is it all right if I go down to the public library today? I think I still have my card here. I have my summer reading list with me, and I wanted to get through it and get some of my essays out of the way early this summer. Trying to get a jump ahead of the next year."

Grissom nodded slowly. "That's fine. Just come back before it starts getting dark. There's a bookstore that's closer, down at the new mall a few blocks away, if you wanted to buy the books instead. I left an envelope of money where the phone is. It's for emergencies only, so don't spend it all."

"Especially all in one place?" she asked with a smirk. "Thanks. I'll stop by there and see if they have them." They looked at each other, much the way strangers would look at each other, and then looked away, Anastasia going back to the crossword. "By the way, I have a letter from the school for you. I left it in your room. No, it's not another behavior report," she said defensively when she saw his look. She had been written up a number of times during the past two years for fighting with other students, had even been suspended for punching a girl in the locker room and knocking her out. He had let the family that she was staying with in Florida deal with her punishment. He hadn't heard about the incident until much later. "My councilor said that they want to push me up another grade level. They want me to take some AP classes and a couple of college classes, but it would be up to you. I mean, it's not like I'm not going to be with my own age group, and I already have my diploma so I didn't see what the problem would be. Mark and Karen are all for it," she told him, naming the married couple that she was staying with.

"And their daughter?"

She snorted with laughter, tossing her head back. The morning sun caught the diamond chip in her nose and made it twinkle in front of him. He almost winced. He really didn't like that piercing on her. "Cassie? Please. She's lucky to be passing all of her classes, even with me tutoring her. There's no way she's going to get into any AP classes, let alone some college level stuff. Face it, Dad. Your daughter is a little genius."

He shook his head. She certainly wasn't a genius, but he knew the words had been said in jest. No, his daughter was incredibly bright and advanced for her age, but nowhere near the genius level. She was just plain book smart and absorbed almost everything that she read or was taught. That was one of the very few things that she had inherited from him, even though he knew intelligence wasn't inherited. Thankfully, he told himself, she wasn't like him in the other regards. She didn't keep herself sealed up in one place because it was comfortable. He knew that his daughter was a little social butterfly, not exactly popular but her cell phone had probably three times the amount of numbers that his did, and he knew that she used the text messaging feature constantly, judging by the bills he got. "I'll consider it. Can you please turn that down so that I can get some sleep?" he asked, mug in hand, as he walked away from her and started up the stairs.

Reluctantly, she lifted the remote and turned down the volume a considerable amount. "I love you, too," she called up the stairs after him, a sarcastic lilt to her voice.

He shook his head. He had a lot to learn about having a sixteen year old living with him. Especially a sixteen year old with a mouth like hers.


	2. Part One, Chapter Two

Title - Everything's Changed (2007 Edition)

Author - pepsicolagurl

Rating - M for language, violence, sexuality

Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously (original characters). Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All known characters belong to CBS and/or Jerry Bruckheimer. Original characters belong to pepsicolagurl. Deepest apologies from the author if the plot bunny dies. There's only so much that life support can do.

Author's Note - Obviously, I know nothing about parole hearings. I faked it. So sue me.

* * *

Part One  
Chapter Two

Anastasia looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. It had been, without a doubt, a week and a half of hell. She was beginning to think that there wasn't one thing that they didn't fight about or disagree on. Music, television shows, movies...hell, even the way she read the newspaper meant that her father was deviating from his set routine and God forbid that happen. She shook her head and reached for the brush sitting on the airport bathroom counter. As she attempted to brush her hair back into place, she stared back at her own dark blue eyes and frowned. She just couldn't do anything to make him happy, that was it. Everything that she did meant that she was making a mess or being too loud, when all she was trying to do was live! She left her books lying around the living room, she typed too loudly on the computer downstairs, she left her wet towels sitting on the bathroom floor. Why couldn't he just understand that she lived with four other people when she was in Florida and the house was always in shambles? That's what happened when there were two sixteen year old girls and a thirteen year old boy. She wasn't going to change _her_ routine just to suit him, just like he wasn't willing to change his to suit her.

She slammed the brush back down with one hand, the other holding her hair off the nape of her neck. She pulled one of the hair ties out of her mouth to pull her hair into a high ponytail, grumbling to herself with the other hair tie still firmly between her teeth. Grissom had laid down the law last night, before they went to bed. Most of the piercings either had to be taken out or covered up. She couldn't wear anything revealing. She couldn't wear her usual dark eyeliner and mascara. Instead, she looked like some sort of Stepford teenager, all neat and nicely scrubbed, a bare amount of makeup on her face and wearing, of all things, a flowered dress. Forget hell, she told herself. It was like...a Laura Ashley hell.

Using the other hair tie, she wrapped her ponytail into a neat looking bun, trying not to make it look as spiky as it normally did. Her usual black heeled boots had been left at home, as had her comfortable flip-flops, and she looked down at the basic white sandals adorning her feet. They barely had a heel, she fumed to herself, looking back in the mirror for a final check of her makeup and hair. She readjusted the simple diamond pendant that she was wearing, which had once been her mother's. As nice as it was to know that her father trusted her with her mother's jewelry, it was still strange to not be wearing her usual assortment of black cord necklaces and the few silver charms that dangled from them. Her usual rings were, for the most part, off of her fingers and on the vanity, despite the fact that it showed off some very obvious tan lines on her fingers. No, her father wanted her to look like a sweet little princess, like she was still six years old and as adorable as the day she had been before her mother died.

The brush went back in her purse and she sprayed a small amount of vanilla scented perfume on herself before closing her bag and giving herself one final look. She smirked at her reflection and left the bathroom, pushing the door open with authority. The bustling Los Angeles airport invaded all of her senses, and for a moment, she stood there and allowed it all to wash over her. "All right, let's go," she said when she spotted her father waiting for her patiently outside the bathroom.

They walked side by side out the door, and they both fumbled for their sunglasses to avoid the morning's glaring rays. Grissom waved down a taxi and waited for her to crawl into the back before following. He gave the driver the address of a prison and settled back for the long ride there. There was still two hours until the parole hearing was to start. They had plenty of time. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Grissom asked her, looking over at the teenager beside him.

Anastasia turned her head and smiled. "You ask me this every time, Dad. Yes, I'm sure I want to do this. Are _you_ sure that you don't want to say anything this time?"

He shook his head. "No, it's your show this time."

She rolled her eyes behind the dark frames that looked oddly out of place with her delicately flowered dress. "Thanks," she told him sarcastically. "I needed to hear that."

* * *

It was the part that always made her nervous, made her tense. She couldn't help but sit at the edge of her seat as she looked towards the man that had changed her life. She couldn't help but wonder what would be different if he hadn't killed his wife and set her father off on a manhunt to find him and put him in jail. What would have happened if he hadn't picked up that gun and followed them home from the mall and pulled the trigger. There were so many questions that the one event left unanswered. Would she be attending school in Florida? Would she still be living with her father and her mother? Would she be a normal, well adjusted teenager? Or would everything still be the same, she asked herself, sighing lightly.

The members of the parole board looked towards her. "And I understand that the victim's family has something to say?" one of them asked.

She stood up and smoothed out her skirt, reaching into her purse for the few pieces of folded notebook paper she had brought with her. She walked up to the podium in front of her and smiled shakily at them. God, she hated public speaking. "I'm sorry, I had to write it down. I hope no one minds if I read it off, rather than just...you know...talk."

The same parole board member smiled back at her calmly, reassuringly. "That's perfectly fine Ms. Grissom. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Yes, please," she said softly into the microphone. A bailiff nearby poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on the long table in front of the parole board, bringing it over to her. She smiled to him and thanked him, taking a sip before unfolding her papers. The sound of the pages crinkling were caught by the microphone and echoed throughout the room. She winced. "Sorry."

A few chuckles came from the parole board members, putting her more at ease. She smiled back at them. "Whenever you're ready, Miss Grissom."

She took a deep breath and looked down at the papers, covered with her neat writing. "As you know, my name is Anastasia Grissom. I'm sixteen years old and I live in Miami, Florida, with friends and attend high school and college. I graduated last year, have my diploma and everything. Ten years ago, my life changed. I was six years old when my mother was shot. I was in the backseat of our station wagon when she died. I remember holding onto a small stuffed puppy that my father gave me to replace the family pet that had passed away earlier that year. I was crying and holding onto it when my mother bled to death."

She paused for a moment and looked over her shoulder at her father, who nodded to her. Turning back, she looked back at her papers. "What I can remember of my life back then was good. Really good. My father worked for the Los Angeles police department as a criminal investigator. He had just received his doctorate in entomology and was teaching criminal justice and criminal science seminars at local colleges and universities. My mom was a stay-at-home mom. She belonged to a few local charities and clubs. She was a member of the PTA of the school that I attended. She volunteered quite often to come into the class and help.

"We had a nice little house in a small suburb of the city. It wasn't overly large, but it wasn't tiny. Just the right size for a young couple and their toddler. I had a happy childhood. There were the usual bumps, scrapes, and bruises from trying to learn how to ride a bike or roller skate or just playing around in the front yard with my friends. I had a tire swing in the front of the yard, in the old tree, and a swing set in the back yard. I can still remember baking cookies with my mother, the smell, the feel of putting my little hands in the dough to mix in the chocolate chips. I remember playing hide and seek with my father when he came home from work. Mom would help me find a good hiding spot and then be really quiet and pretend not to know where I was. Of course, now I realize that she used to point out my hiding spot to him, but back then...we were partners in crime." She paused for a moment as a few of them smiled and chuckled at her words.

"The problem is...I can't remember what my mom looks like. I've been told that I have her eyes and her smile. My dad tells me all the time that I act just like her, even sound like her on the phone. But I don't remember her face. I don't remember what she looked like when she smiled, or what she sounded like when she laughed. I don't remember if she was tall or short, thin or heavyset. I don't remember the color of her hair, although I've been told that it was dark brown. I can look at pictures of her but they don't tell me anything. I can look at pictures of her holding me and all three of us together, but all she is to me...is a stranger.

"When my mom got pregnant with me, my dad told me that she wrote a number of letters to me, to be given to me when I got older. Each of them is tucked into some sort of card. I got one when I turned thirteen, another when I turned sixteen earlier this year. I'm to get another one when I turn twenty-one, and when I turn forty. There's one for me for my wedding day, my high school graduation later this year, my college graduation, and for the birth of my first child. She wanted to be there to give them to me in person. Now, they come from a lawyer's office. I get my mother's words from a stranger."

She paused for a moment to clear her throat, waiting for the glassy film over her eyes to disappear before she continued to speak, this time with a stronger voice. "Over the years, I've been given bits and pieces of my mother. I know what her favorite album was. I'm wearing her necklace right now. I've been told that she used to drink the same tea that I drink now, and that she hated green beans as much as I do."

Again, she waited for the laughter to cease, smiling softly at them. The smile died away quickly. "I was six years old when my life ended, and I started a new one. I don't know my mother, and I barely know my father. I don't even live with him. The memories are too much for him, I guess. I haven't lived with him since I was nine. And the funny thing is, I can't help but think about the things that have been taken from me, taken forcefully, against my will. The day I was allowed to wear makeup for the first time, which was a Christmas concert that I was in...I think in the third or fourth grade...she wasn't sitting beside me and helping me put it on, telling me what looked good and what didn't. We didn't get a chance to go shopping and giggle about clothes and try on stupid hats at Wal-Mart or something so that we could take pictures and laugh. She wasn't there for any of my choir recitals, or my piano recital. She'll never get to hear me play guitar. There was no trip to Disneyland with her."

A single tear rolled down her cheek and she hurriedly brushed it away, not wanting to look back at her father to see the look on her face. Anastasia knew that if she looked at him, she wouldn't be able to continue. So she kept her eyes forward, focused on a spot behind the middle seat at the table. "When my first boyfriend broke my heart and made me cry for a week, she wasn't there to comfort me or offer me ice cream or cookies. When I got my first report card with straight A's, she wasn't there to give me a hug or buy me a present. When I take part in my high school graduation, she won't be there when they hand me my diploma, with a dozen roses and a mile-wide proud smile. She won't be there at my wedding, to see her little girl grow up and become a woman herself. There's no more baking cookies or gardening or anything. She's gone.

"She's been gone for ten Christmases. She didn't get a chance to play the Tooth Fairy that often. She's missed ten birthdays of mine. Sweet Sixteen and no mom to share it with. I already know what life is like without her. But I'll never have a chance to know what life would be like with her."

Her tears stopped falling and she looked towards the man in the orange jumpsuit. "But that's not my fault. It's not my dad's fault. The only person who can be at fault is sitting over there. If there's anything that I've learned from my dad, who is a well-known forensic scientist, it's that the evidence doesn't lie. And the evidence is what put that man in jail. He followed us to a mall and watched us shop. He followed us to our home and parked his car on the curb and loaded a gun. And when my mom got out of our car in the driveway and went around to the other side to get me out of the back, after she opened the door...he pulled the trigger and he shot her three times. The coroner's report said that no matter which of the three bullets hit her first, all of them were fatal in their own right. If he had shot her once, he would have killed her. He knew what he was doing. And because of that, I don't remember who my mom was. But what I do remember was the blood. And the screaming and the crying that I did. Because I was too scared to leave the car, and I sat there until the police came, screaming and crying for my mom. It didn't matter, before that day, how scared I was. The second I started to scream or the second that the first tear fell, she was there to comfort me. This was the first time that she couldn't."

Her eyes swung back to the parole board members, brimming with tears and turning red. She sniffled and stopped long enough for a sip of water. "And now, he has a chance to be out on the streets again. A man that was convicted of two murders. He murdered two women, two wives, two mothers. First he killed his wife. Then he killed my mom. And you want to let him out, in the general public? I don't deny that people make mistakes. People make mistakes and they learn from those mistakes, and generally, they don't make them again. But these weren't mistakes. They were cold-blooded murders. He knew what he was doing, and he planned them out. And even if that doesn't sway you to make the right decision, to keep him behind bars, then remember my earlier words today."

Anastasia looked each of them in the eyes in turn, taking a long moment to acknowledge each of them. "He took away my right to know my mother. He took away a loving wife, a loving mother, and a wonderful woman. I hope one day, once I grow up and mature, that I can be like her. But the truth is, I'll never know if I am or not. I can only take other people's words for it, because I don't know her. I never got that chance." She gathered her papers back together and folded them, taking a deep breath. "I hope that you take my words into consideration. Thank you for your time."

She stepped away from the podium quickly, pivoting on her heel and almost fleeing back to her seat next to her father. Without meeting his eyes, she put the papers back into her purse, fumbling with the leather bag for a moment before sighing and looking forward again. The same parole board member looked down at a file, made a notation, and then looked back to scan the room. "And I also understand that we're going to hear from Mr. Cray's family now. Sir, if you will?"

She crossed her arms and settled in her uncomfortable metal folding chair, as the man in the orange jumpsuit turned to look over his shoulder briefly, meeting her eyes.

She shuddered and shifted on her seat so that she was closer to her father.

* * *

There was a twenty minute period after all the speeches were made when Anastasia escaped to the bathroom briefly, while the rest of the parole board members left the room in heated debate about what to do. She hadn't even bothered to keep her fingers crossed on her lap. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that the man would never be released. The crime was so wicked, so sensationalized by the press, about how an innocent six year old had to watch her mother be shot to death in front of her, that there was no chance he would get to walk the streets again. At least, she admitted to her reflection in the bathroom, that's what she hoped.

Going back into the room, she took her seat next to her father, only moments before the parole board members started filtering back into the room again. They took their time taking their seats and opening the files in front of them. They didn't meet anyone's eyes as the man in the centre began to speak. He cleared his throat and pulled the microphone closer to his mouth. Anastasia reached over blindly to her father, slipping her hand under his and clasping his fingers. He looked down, surprised at the contact of the slightly damp, shaking hand that was now within his.

"This was one of the hardest decisions to make. We were privileged to hear two well thought out and well spoken arguments from both sides. Miss Grissom, allow me to say that your words touched all of us very deeply. None of the members of this board have lost a parent or a family member in as violent a way as you have. The fact that you are a very bright, well adjusted young woman speaks volumes as to your father and to an extent, your mother. However, that being said, we have a number of other things to take into account. Such as Mr. Cray's spotless behavior record, his work with the jailhouse chapel, and his recent psychological reports. Mr. Cray has shown great regret for his actions of ten years ago, and that cannot go unmentioned. Therefore, the members of this board and the state of California have decided to offer parole to Mr. Cray, pursuant to a number of conditions that will be discussed at a later date. Congratulations, Mr. Cray."

She sat there for a moment, shell-shocked, as the members of the board began gathering up their papers again, getting ready to leave the room. The man in the orange jumpsuit had a bright grin on his face, and was shaking hands with his son, who was smiling just as widely. Anastasia shook her head as she felt her throat beginning to close up on her. "No, no," she whispered, mainly to herself, before she tightened the grip on her father's hand, swinging her head around to look at him. "Daddy, do something! Don't let them do this! It's not fair, they can't!" Her voice began to gather volume, and slowly, one by one, the people in the room began to turn their attention to her. "They can't! What the hell is their problem? He killed Mom and he's free? What the hell?"

Grissom stood up, almost pulling her along to her feet. She continued to shake her head and cry, almost fighting him on the way to the door. He pushed it open with his free hand and began to pull her out, but she dug in her heels and spun around to face her mother's killer. Pieces of her black hair had escaped from her neat bun with the violent shaking of her head, and she narrowed her eyes at him, an ugly smirk settling on her tear stained face. "I hope you rot in hell, you fucking son of a bitch. I hope someone follows you one day and shoots you. You stupid fucking-"

And her words were cut off when Grissom pulled the hysterical teenager out the door, shutting it behind him.


End file.
